Marines: Semper Fi, Corpsmen Always Sly

Marines: Semper Fi, Corpsmen Always Sly

I recall several incidents where Marines and Navy Corpsmen met; not all of them were mutually supportive of each other. Although many Naval Corpsmen were cross trained to accompany Marines in the field, they didn’t always see eye to eye. One of my friends was a prime example. His name isn’t necessary at the moment, but at one time he had a definite Hippie type personality, caught in Uncle Sam’s military machine. He preferred the feel of sandals on his feet, puka shell bead necklace around his neck, and when he talked about a joint in his hand, he wasn’t talking about a knuckle bone.

Who says that the U.S. government doesn’t have a sense of humor? The fickle finger pointed at him, sending him to Field Medical School and then assigned him to a Marine company. This occurred during the Vietnam War when the feeling between Hippies and the Marines weren’t at their best. I wrote my friend a letter and accidentally included his middle name Felix. He wrote back saying it wasn’t hard enough being with these gung-ho meatheads and now they had his middle name to harass him. Sorry man.

Another tale of crosscurrents between Marines and Corpsmen happened while I was stationed in Keflavik, Iceland. The Marines guarded the base while the corpsmen handled the hospital and ambulance needs. There were times when they would mix at the enlisted men’s clubs to eat, drink, and gamble. One challenge that often occurred was a drinking game. A tab would be opened at the bar with the loser responsible for the bill. Beers would appear and disappear until one or the other of the contestants would allow his beers to reappear. They would take turns fetching the drinks from the bar. When the corpsman had his fill, he would pour ipecac syrup into the Marine’s beer. Ipecac is an emetic agent that induces vomiting. By then, the Marine’s taste buds were dulled and he didn’t notice the flavor change. Corpsmen rarely had to pay the tab. As a teetotaler, I was only a casual observer.

One good story shared with me happened while I was in Orlando, Florida. I was caring for a corpsman who’d been injured in Vietnam. He stepped on a land mine and had chunks from his buttocks and one calf missing. He said the Marines asked a Seabee bulldozer operator to clear a path across a field. The Seabee refused and the corpsman was the one who’d found the buried mine. Only by throwing himself forward was he able to escape death. He said that the Seabee later had fallen to friendly fire. Nobody messes with the Marines’ corpsmen.

Rolling Your Own

                Rolling Your Own

My uncle Dale Miner worked at the same place with my dad for a short while. They worked at a factory in South Greensburg, Pennsylvania. Walworth made valves of various sizes from two and a half inches to three feet in diameter of brass, iron, or stainless steel. The company did everything from casting them in the foundry to shaping, welding, cutting, and assembling them. Once they were assembled, they were inspected and the high pressure valves were tested.

            They made two types of valves, a ball valve and a wedge valve. The ball valve had a round ball-type device for closure. It fitted into an angled ring that regulated or stopped the flow of the contents. The wedge valve worked much in the same way. The closure device was wedge shaped and would slide up and down between two planed surfaces. Both type of valves were opened and closed by spinning a wheel that caused a screw to raise and lower the ball or wedge. The surfaces of the ball, wedge, and each surface had to be cut and polished so that the surfaces fit snugly.

Dale rode to work with my dad and two other men. When they drove by one house, a shaggy collie-looking dog would chase the car, barking. Every day the dog would run beside their car and bark. It was annoying to all, but especially to Uncle Dale. For some reason, it really irritated him.

            One day, Dale asked my dad to stop the car at a saw mill before they got to the dog’s house. Dale got out of the car and walked to the discarded wood slab pile. Moving a few, he selected one and carried it back to the car.

            Dale walked to the rear of Dad’s car and asked him to open the trunk. Once Dad opened the trunk, Dale climbed inside, holding the slab in his hands. Dad slipped behind the wheel and drove away. The dog ran out at the approach of Dad’s vehicle and started yapping. Dad was driving a little slower than normal because of his passenger in the trunk. Dale extended the slab out past the side of the car. When the car drove by the mongrel, the slab caught the cur and knocked it off its feet. The dog gave a loud yelp and tumbled off the side of the road in a cloud of dust. It rolled across the berm and disappeared done a small hill. Dad stopped the car a short way down the road. Dale climbed out, closed the trunk, and got back into the car after tossing the slab away.

            The outcome, when Dad would drive by the dog’s house, they would see the dog in the yard, but it never chased my dad’s car again.

Reality and Cartoons Collide

 Reality and Cartoons Collide

When I tried to think of a topic for me to write about, two thoughts meshed. I decided to integrate them and make them my insight on life today. I was reminded of the cartoons of my youth and the reality of my aging body. The pain in my lower back from the shoveling of heavy snow made me feel as though I had gone several rounds with Joe Palooka, the comic pages boxer. Putting aside my aches and pains, I began to recall the cartoons in the Sunday paper and on television.

Dagwood and Blondie, Sad Sack, Beetle Bailey were old standbys. Dick Tracy, Prince Valiant, Felix the Cat, Lil Abner, Katzenjammer Kids captured the excitement and humor over a wide range of topics for us kids. Mutt and Jeff, Nancy and Sluggo, Heckle and Jeckle were couples that amused me. The television introduced me to Tom Terrific, Mickey Mouse, Popeye the Sailor Man. All of the cartoons started in black and white. Adventure time made the names Rodney and Knish, the Little Rascals, the Three Stooges famous to me. Kookla, Fran, and Ollie as well as Sherrie Lewis and Lamb Chop were puppets as well as Howdy Doody.

Bugs Bunny, Elmer Fudd, Daffy Duck, Pepe Le Pew, Porky Pig and Petunia, Foghorn Leghorn, Road Runner, Wylie Coyote, Sylvester and Tweety were all late comers. Caspar the Ghost and Spooky, Wendy the Witch introduced me to a gentle enchanted and supernatural world. These were the cartoons that captured my interest every Saturday morning and caused me to fight for the Sunday Pittsburgh Post Gazette funnies.

Today my writer’s creativity allowed my aging and abused body to be free and wander through the youthful hallways of my brain. I hope that by sharing my memories, that I have stirred a few of yours.

One Day Too I Will Join the Ranks

 

One Day Too I Will Join the Ranks

A fellow nurse with whom I worked at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania shared that a fellow nursing supervisor had died. Most of the nursing supervisors with whom I worked are now walking the streets of gold. Because hey were in management positions, my fellow supervisors were a bit older than most of the nursing staff.

One died suffering the effects from cancer of the spleen. She was admitted to our hospital. Watching her waste away was difficult. Her family tried everything they knew of to try to save her, using all sorts of remedies, but to no avail. She continued her downhill slide, finally becoming a skin stretched skeleton. I will continue to remember her as the vibrant banty-rooster person wearing her nursing cap.

Another supervisor had the annoying habit of writing notes to herself on the back of her hand, even though she carried a sheaf of papers listing each patient in the hospital with diagnoses and room numbers. It may have been a left-over habit from her days as a floor nurse. Although she seemed like a flighty person, she knew more than appeared to me on our first meeting.

One supervisor was a strict disciplinarian with a gruff, often harsh and abrasive manner, but she had a soft soul. Unless you worked closely with her, you could very easily miss that side of her. She would gather baby clothing for nurses who were pregnant on a very tight budget and were struggling to make ends meet. She did the scheduling for her night shift nurses and made every attempt to juggle days so nurses could have the days needed for their needs. I had just started working as a floor nurse when I got married. I had earned no vacation days yet, but she managed to arrange for me to have four days in a row for my honeymoon.

This last supervisor was the most recent to pass. She worked mostly the 3-11 shift and liked it. I didn’t really care for that shift. I was shiftless at that time, working all three shifts. She smiled a lot, only surpassed by her knowledge and by her smoking cigarettes. She had a harsh cough and had to often clear her throat.

Many of my fellow employees have gone to the great beyond. There would be too many for me to list here now, but one day I shall join their ranks and I hope someone will write about me too.

Gone

 Gone

I saw a post showing an aisle in a variety store lined with boxes stacked upon boxes of plastic model boats, planes, and cars. In most stores today, I am lucky to see one small shelf in the huge toy section that has a smattering of these onetime glorious representations of the real things. Gone are the enamel paints and the plastic glue that gave a person a buzz if inhaled for a long periods of time. The selection that remains today is so limited, it barely stirs the imagination of a boy or girl to spend their money for the model.

At one time there was a penny candy counter at the front of almost every country Mom and Pop store. Its wide glass-faced case was often smeared by the noses of children peering inside, trying to decide what to buy with their penny or nickel. The storekeeper would reach into the cavern below and withdraw a small, brown paper sack. A practiced flick of the wrist and it opened, waiting to be filled with the child’s choices. Peppermint sticks, licorice whips, wax lips, candy cigarettes, gum balls, fire balls, chewy caramels, Black Jack, and various suckers with colors that enticed through clear cellophane wrappings or were alluring in their brightly hued paper wrappers. A child’s decision became tantalizingly and deliciously sweet. The grocer’s hand moved to hover over the display, waiting for the child’s final choices. If the child had enough money, there were three cent chocolate Lunch Bars that are now history, too. Once selections were made, the little bag was twisted shut and handed to an eagerly awaiting child.

Cap pistols with strips of exploding caps have been all but banned from use today. Using a pointed finger pretending it’s a pistol can get a kid kicked out of school. The innocence of a buss on a cheek can land a boy or girl in trouble if a teacher so deems it. Hot chocolate and slices of buttered toast to start the school day are long gone. Even the wonderful flavorful school lunches have faded into nutritious nothings.

Wood shop, music, art, and home economics have been replaced by forages into climate change and social justice. The Pledge of Allegiance, Bible reading, and a time of prayer have lost their zeal and have fallen into disuse. If a man displays gentlemanly traits like opening a door for a female, often they are scourged.

Writing letters and post cards have lost their appeal, giving way to selfies, texts, and e-mails. At least greeting cards still hold some importance, although e-cards are making an inroad on that once popular more permanent method of showing that you care.

Keeping Promises

 

Keeping Promises

I mentioned several things on my Facebook posts that needed follow up to tell the full story. I looked back through my previous Blogs and wasn’t able to find them. I have so many stored from the past. They’re listed under titles and sometimes I can’t find what I want. My titles are often obscure and don’t share the facts that are buried in the text.

There are two stories I wanted to share. The first was in response to a cartoon about a person that was too hot under a blanket, too cold without being covered, but with the body covered and one leg protruding it was “just right.” My wife Cindy Morrison Beck had the same attitude. She called her leg “her thermostat.” Most of the time, I had no problem, but in the middle of the winter, it would get icy cold. When it became too cold for her, she would draw it back under the covers and place it against my bare back. The shock can be a real eye-opener in the middle of the night. The worst part was that she would immediately stick her other “thermostat” out from under the blankets to cool. Oh how I miss that shock therapy.

The other story was a post saying, “Don’t tell me about your childhood problems, I was forced to watch Lawrence Welk as a kid.” Lawrence Welk was a staple of our house Saturday evenings. Just as sure as I knew the sun was going to come up in the morning, I was positive that my dad Carl Beck would sit in his swivel reclining rocker directly in front of our black and white television to enjoy the music, then almost immediately fall asleep. I tried on many occasions to stealthily change the channel of that old television to anything that was more interesting than music of an accordion or “The Shrimp Boats are Coming.”

As soon as I would click the knob, my dad would sit upright and snort, “I’m watching that.” My hopes dashed, I’d return the channel back and we’d continue to watch Lawrence Welk. One time, I thought I’d prove Dad wrong and I slowly turned his swivel rocker to face away from the T. V. Great planning, then click…the chair bolted upright with Dad sputtering, “I was watch…” His voice faded to nothing when he was aware that he wasn’t facing the set. He returned the chair to face the television and we watched Lawrence Welk. Needless to say, Dad wasn’t pleased and tried to kick my butt as I walked past. He missed and nearly fell out of his chair. Although I still don’t like to hear the bubbly music, that program continues to have a special memory for me.

Imagine That There's No

 Imagine That There’s No

Imagine that people have no imagination. Their minds are devoid of thinking abstractly. Their thoughts were only able to deal with concrete ideas that they could hold in their hands, to see with their eyes, or to taste with their tongue. Our ancestors had no televisions, no computers, no movies, and no cameras, and no mimeographs or Xerox copiers. When mankind was first established on earth, the passing on information was done by story telling. Oral tradition was the only way to pass on knowledge and tales. A person’s imagination was needed to shape and bring to life the words that were shared by another person. Slowly words were transferred by marks of charcoal, divots pressed into clay tablets, or carvings into stone. Some used the charcoal to outline beasts and beings onto cave walls to tell stories. Others took it a step farther to make pigments to paint the story onto the walls. It took only the imagination of the viewer to retell what the scene portrayed and to bring the story to life.

When the written languages proliferated, so did the expansion of information. Each idea became a shared foundation upon which another generation of ideas could be used as stepping stones or as a ladder to reach the next level of ideas. Having the written word was an improvement, but it still took imagination to fully understand what the author intended. Then it took more imagination to see beyond the writer’s plateau and to create something more.

Inventions created electricity and the telephone farther extending man’s imaginative reach. The reach cut the cord and radios were invented. Families huddled around the radio in the home to listen to the news, music, comedy, drama, and sports. It was no longer necessary to wait for word of mouth or to attend an event to be in-the-know, but the listener still needed imagination to understand what was happening. They used their mind’s eye to “each the games unfold. It took imagination for the news of the battlefront and the fighting armies of the war to be understood. Many used maps, but it didn’t relay the carnage and the struggle of the soldiers.

Today we are being spoon-fed from televisions, computers, and even our cell phones. The once necessary imagination is being starved or being overfed by the inundation of information. Whether starved or choked, today’s youth are losing their ability to use their imagination.

The Birth of a Notion

 The Birth of a Notion

As I was thinking of what to write, two thoughts for the title and the direction for the subject were battling in my mind. The first title I thought to name it was “The Birth of a Nation” and I planned to share stories surrounding the birth of my three children. The initial thought was spurred by my post of our visit to Niagara Falls and the trip home. My wife Cindy Morrison Beck became nauseated as we drove home. Later as she tried to sleep, the images of electric poles sped past her like a picket fence and the nausea persisted. This was our introduction into pregnancy with our first daughter Amanda Beck Yoder. After Cindy’s symptom, I developed a craving for greasy hamburgers then and at each of her following pregnancies. With the last craving of a hamburger for our third child, Cindy said, “No need for me to go to the doctor. I’m pregnant” and she was.

The second idea that fits the chosen title of this piece was to introduce how an idea, phrase, or incident can set off a spark of creativity which eventually becomes the birth of a story, book, or poem. Many times I copy down a single thought and it stays on the paper for quite awhile. It was something I wanted to keep, but the words needed to finish it weren’t there yet. It was only the germ of a plot, a partial line of a poem, or sometimes it would find its way into a waste basket, rejected because I’d already written something similar or it wasn’t as good as my initial thought.

In my computer room, there are reams of paper with finished and unfinished manuscripts, partially written stories, and finished poems or Haiku that haven’t yet been entered into the computer. The stacks pile up, partly because of laziness on my part. I see the task and because I never took typing classes, I avoid it. I am a two, and at best a three fingered typist.

I did start to clean some of the clutter surrounding me and I found a check as payment for a book I sold. It was tucked into a Christmas card. The postmark was from a year ago. My bank was kind enough to cash it. I do hope my cousin Barb won’t be too mad that I took so long to redeem it. As you can see, even checks that haven’t been cashed can be an interesting notion to write about.

Will You Crucify Him

 

Will You Crucify Him?

Pure without defile, Jesus went to trial

Yet the crowd yelled, “Crucify Him.”

Barabbas was set free and Jesus it would be

That the crowd called, “Crucify Him.”

 

When the scourging was through, they mocked “King of the Jew”

Crying loudly, “Crucify Him.”

Parading Christ around on the blood spattered ground

They took Christ to crucify Him.

 

From two trials was led, thorny crown on His head

To mobs calling “Crucify Him.”

Guards cried, “Take up your cross. You’re not much of a loss.”

And the crowd roared, “Crucify Him.”

 

A spear thrust in His side, made sure Jesus had died

In response to “Crucify Him.”

Christ in burial clothes from His head to His toes

Wrapped after they crucified Him.

 

With tomb stone rolled away Jesus rose the third day

Of whom they cried, “Crucify Him.”

Even tomb couldn’t hold the one prophets foretold

And of men who’d crucify Him.

 

If you’d been in the crowd with crowds screaming out loud

To Pilate to “Crucify Him.

And if you standing there with the crowd would you share

With their calls to crucify Him?

Up Down and All around

 Up and Down and All Around

Maybe because I have slowed down just a bit from my youth or maybe my artist’s eye is capturing more of the beauty in my surroundings, but I have really been impressed with the sky filled with clouds, sunrises, and sunsets. I’ve looked more closely at the intricate delicate beauty of flowering plants. The rich colors and subtle hues my eye sees doesn’t translate to the camera’s eye. I struggle to describe what I see. It is never as precise even when it becomes a photo on my cell phone. I try to capture and share these landscapes, but wish I could share the intensity of the scene that I see.

My home is located in the mountains of southwestern Pennsylvania. It sports a wide panorama of surrounding tree clad mountains. This time of years those various trees wear a variety of colors in a patchwork design. These Chestnut Ridge Mountains are but hills compared to the Rockies or the Grand Tetons that I’ve visited, but Pennsylvania remains my home. On three sides of my home I have views of each sunrise, each sunset, and the many storms that roll from the west in massive thunderheads interspersed with flashes of lightning.

Because I live in a rural area, there is a perfusion of wildflowers and the many flowers planted by my wife Cindy Morrison Beck. One wildflower that was my wife’s favorite flower is the daisy. Fresh, plain, and innocent, its white petals form a tight circle around an egg yolk yellow center. The irises and the snowball bush have bloomed. The blossoms of my apple trees, the black berry, raspberry, and strawberry blossoms all are faded and the fruit is formed and been picked.

If I look, there is always something new for me to see. Have I slowed down enough to take the time to see? Have I gained the wisdom to really look around and interpret what I see? Often when I drive I am surprised with a sudden eye widening view. It stirs my artist heart and I wonder if I could ever capture the sights I was seeing with paint or with camera. Photographs capture only a small part of the things my eyes see. But I try.

Only the Lonely

Only the Lonely

The forced isolation, the mandated covering of faces with masks, threats of job loss, and social distancing from a past disease entity has created a serious problem. Mankind is a social creature. The old adage of “No man is an island” is true. Depression and the suicide rates rose tremendously with the “mandates” of Federal and State government during the “pandemic.” The most grievous thing was that the “preventions,” the social distancing, the masks, and closing schools and work places have done little more than extended the impact of a recent disease. This isolation and loneliness is crippling millions.

The cause of the disease is so microscopic that masks did little to stop it unless someone coughed or sneezed in someone’s face. The provided information about “prevention” did little to prevent its spread and medications used to curtail and treat the disease did more harm than good. There are many other illnesses and organ failure that came with the “cure.” There have been no extended time-trials to study the “cure” and its long term effects. The only way laboratories could have readied the “cure” so rapidly was to have known about the disease before it “burst on the scene.” Medication that was pooh-poohed by scientists is now proved to actually work.

Imposed internet schooling for children has been a failure on so many levels, but most appalling is that kids need to learn social skills and how to live with others. Now they have limited interactions with their peers. The lack of support from others of their own age has become a flaw in their character.

Isolation has caused feelings of loneliness. It can be intensified during the sudden loss of a loved one. The grieving person has to reshape their life without the support provided by others. Friends have fallen away because those bonds have been broken. The person often feels like the third wheel on a bicycle.

Loneliness can invade slowly, an insidious malicious entity that robs the peace and joy in a person’s life. The cloud thickens until it blots out the world around them. Depression sets in. The loss of a job, loss of possessions, an injury or an illness may isolate a person from their surroundings as did the mandated isolation.

Loneliness can present itself when a certain song is played or a meaningful phrase is repeated. A certain smell can stir a wave on loneliness. It may be as intense as the initial loss of a parent, partner, or close friend.

A possible cure? Don’t expect a stranger to come to you. Reach out to others. You may find some folk are as lonely as you. They may be looking for a friend too. 

 

A Stirring of Memories

A Stirring of Memories

One evening I was watching one of the nature channels on television. The program was of an explorer who goes about trying to find animals that are thought to be extinct. His quest took him to Newfoundland to look for a white wolf that was thought to be extinct for over thirty years. He first met an 80 year old man who lives in Newfoundland and kept two wolves, but not ones that were indigenous to the Island. He was familiar with wolves.

The two set out searching one arm of the eastern coast, but when they were unsuccessful there, they moved their operation to the northern part of the island. After several more days of searching, they found tracks, scat and several thermal images that prove there are still wolves in some isolated areas of Newfoundland.

I have said all of this to say much of the scenery felt familiar to me. Quite a few years ago a young man named Tim wanted to see what Newfoundland and Labrador were like. He was thinking of establishing himself as a missionary in this area of the globe. My good friend Norman Lee Johnston was our Pastor at the time and very keen on supporting missionaries. He decided to take the young man to visit that part of the world. My son Andrew, my daughter Amanda, and myself were fortunate enough to make the trip with them, making the drive from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, through the northeastern states, and into Canada. We camped in Maine before crossing the border into New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, then taking the ferry to Newfoundland.

Back on dry land, we traveled the length of Newfoundland from the southern coast to its most northern tip. All of this was to say that much of the scenery that I saw on the television program brought back the memories of a dear friend who recently passed away and of friends that we met on the trip. I miss my dear friend Pastor Norman Johnston. I also miss a missionary couple that we met on our trip, Buzz and Judy Ferguson. Just to let my missionary friends and families know that they are thought of and that they remain in my prayers. Buzz has also passed, but here's a shout out to a lovely lady Judy. 

Autumn Buckwheat and Cider

 Autumn Buckwheat and Cider

It’s time again for the Autumn Buckwheat and Sausage Festival in Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania. This year the date falls on October 10, 11, 12 2025. The tradition of using buckwheat flour to make pancakes goes back much farther than the beginnings of the Ohiopyle Buckwheat Festival which started in 1947. The festival had very humble roots, starting out as the fund raiser for the Ohiopyle Volunteer Fire Department and by the community wanting to keep alive the history of the area. The Buckwheat Festival still remains the chief fundraiser for the fire department.

The early method to fry sausage and “bake” the buckwheat cakes started out by cooking the food in cast iron frying pans over single burner open gas flames. The spiced and ground pork was hand-shaped by helpers before they made their way into the skillets.

That way of cooking continued at least until 1974 when I started to volunteer there to spend time with my-wife-to-be, Cindy Morrison. For a few years my job was to wash dishes. That was a major undertaking. It seemed there was always something to wash.

Later I was pressed into service baking the buckwheat cakes. It was a move up in responsibility, but this takes sweat and special care. By then, the wide griddles had been introduced. It was a hot job. The temperature of the griddles must be maintained for an even baking of the cakes. That limited the air flow into that room. Smoke and heat quickly accumulated and at times it became very uncomfortable.

I was “rescued” by my father-in-law, Elmer “Bud” Morrison to fry the sausage. Soon afterwards, the sausage frying area converted to the wide grill surface. Each grill will hold nearly 3 dozen of the sausage patties. At last count, there were a dozen grills set up to thoroughly cook the pork patties before serving them to the guests. I’ve volunteered for nearly 50 years.

Chris Fennimore and WQED television would often come. One year they actually recorded the Buckwheat Festival for a program on volunteerism. Usually WQED repeats a showing this time of year. Most years he makes the trek from Pittsburgh to visit the festival.

Once cooked, the sausage patties are placed in huge roasters to be transported upstairs to the dining area or to the school building next door to keep the patties hot and ready for those who come to enjoy the autumn leaves, Ohiopyle Falls, and the meal. The only change in the menu was the addition of pancakes for the younger generation. Steaming stacks of buckwheat cakes, pancakes, sausage, freshly fried potatoes, bread and butter pickles, and applesauce are placed on the table “home-style” to assuage the hunger of the diners.

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Tom Beck